by Heidi Ayarbe
I can’t afford to have Lillian get involved after all these years.
Leonard makes an awful whistling sound with his nose like pan-flute background music. I wait. I don’t beg. I don’t have to because favors will always end up being paid off in one way or another. Just a matter of time.
“Yeah. All right. You’ve got until the end of next week, no interest. But Mike, this is the last time. You’re gonna have to start banking some of your vig, set up your own accounts, and get off the sites. They’re tying you up.”
Yeah. But I can’t bank my vig because of credit-card debt. I’ve got to stop buying crap.
“Thanks, Leonard.” I hang up the phone and stare at it, wondering what’s happening to me. I get that old feeling like I’m being set up—like this is some elaborate plan to turn me into the school joke. I need a jar of words—proof that things were said, that I’m not inventing all of this.
I shower, blow dry my hair, and get dressed. I inhale and turn around, staring at myself in the mirror. If my goal was to look like a cashmere eggplant, mission accomplished.
A pile of new clothes lies on the bed next to five fashion mags, all with articles that claim to find the just right look for your body shape.
None of the articles addresses eggplants.
I try to give my hair “body”—and have even shampooed with one of those special European deals that’s supposed to make my hair look like a TV commercial model’s. Unfortunately, though, the perma-limp wins out, and I still look like the “before” picture on the bottle. And kind of smoky-mesquite smelling.
I should cancel. This is stupid, a stupid football party. Plus I don’t think I can face Josh and everybody else he’s invited looking like an eggplant. Nobody should ever have to look like an eggplant. Yesterday’s Babylonia victory is blotched out by my hideous purple sweater.
I can just order pizza and watch the game from here. I dial Josh’s number and hang up. I look at the time. Eleven fifteen. Kickoff’s at one thirty.
Why did he say eleven thirty?
I dial again, then hang up.
Again.
He insisted on picking me up. It’s like a trap. If I could just go in my own car . . . I wouldn’t go.
I peek from behind the curtain. Lillian drives up. She walks in the door balancing grocery bags in her arms. I grab one and take it to the kitchen, digging into the day-old raisin bagels that go gummy in my mouth.
“You’re dressed up,” she says. “Plans?”
I swallow. “Divisional playoffs. There’s a party at a friend’s house.”
She raises her eyebrow. “New sweater?”
I nod. “Yeah.” I stare at my reflection in the window, tugging on the sweater. If Lillian’s geraniums were in bloom, I could stick a couple in my hair and pass for an Anne Geddes Where Are They Now? poster child.
“It looks nice.” She touches the soft cashmere.
So I buy expensive clothes and cut out the tags at home so Lillian won’t see them, because she’d go through the roof.
But it’s something I do for me and only me. I get the grades. I got a full ride to the University of Washington. Lillian has never once had to do anything extra for me and has made a point of making sure I know that room and board is burden enough. All her “extras” go to her causes—Planned Parenthood, Clinica Olé, Oppressed Person of the Month. It’s like playing Name That Cause.
Admirable. Sure.
I know I sound petty.
But when you’re nine years old and want a cake for your birthday—even a Hostess Cupcake would do—and your grandma, who refuses to be called “Grandma,” thinks your birthday is better spent handing out brochures in front of the legislature building and holding a picket sign that says I WAS A CHOICE, you can get a little jaded.
It sucks being a leftover from Lillian’s big mistake—my mom. And it sucks feeling guilty that Lillian doesn’t have clothes as nice as I do.
I shrug her hand off my arm. “It was on sale. I’d better go finish getting ready.”
I apply makeup according to the step-by-step process outlined on page forty-three. Just as I remove the mascara wand from my eyeball for the fourth time, I hear a knock on the door. My goal was to be on the lookout and dash to his car as soon as he drove up, but I’m too late. Lillian’s already invited Josh in.
I rush into the living room. Josh looks around our trailer house, and his eyes land on me.
I feel like a stain—this overdressed, over-made-up Rorschach blotch of purple ink on the décor in our home, which you can best describe as contemporary trailer trash.
“Hi. Um. Josh. This is Lillian. Lillian, Josh.” They shake hands and we all stand weeble-wobbling back and forth from one foot to the other.
I will my deodorant to kick into overdrive because the last thing I need are dark purple rings. “Wow,” Josh finally says.
“Wow what?” I ask, probably a little too much on the defensive side.
Josh cracks a gap-toothed smile at me. “You’re so pretty.”
Lillian scowls. She’s probably already looking at Josh as if he were the evil carrier of sperm—the reproductive germ that turns the women in our family into undereducated indentured servants. Then she looks at me as if I were the carrier of bad judgment.
“You look nice,” Josh says.
“I’m probably overdressed,” I say. “I can change.”
“Don’t,” he says, gnawing on his bottom lip, avoiding Lillian’s gaze. Lillian, though she can’t be five-three, has a way of making everybody look up at her. She’s this giant, scary person who makes everybody feel unsettled.
I feel bad for Josh, being stared at like that. Josh looks up at the faux fireplace mantel, pointing to the smattering of framed pictures, most of them missing the glass. “Are any of those you?” It feels like Josh is reading our weird family history through a collection of random images—like he’s on some kind of archaeology dig, sweeping away the dust, hoping to reveal the truth.
He points to some of Lillian’s political rally pictures. “Is this the real deal?”
“The real deal,” Lillian says, the iceberg melting. Just a little.
“As in Woodstock, sit-ins, marches on Washington, and all that stuff?”
“Yes,” she says.
“Lillian is the 1960s poster child,” I say. It’s impossible to keep the accusation out of my voice.
Lillian scowls. “Back then we believed in more than new clothes and extravagance,” she says, staring at my sweater. “Nice to meet you, Josh. If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”
This is our cue to leave. Run. Flee. Never look back. But Josh studies the photos on the mantel. “She still do stuff like this?” he asks when she leaves the room.
I motion to a pile of boxes. “She works at Clinica Olé and is really involved in Planned Parenthood. We fold and pass around brochures every weekend.”
“How amazing your grandma actually does stuff . . . like, she walks the walk, you know?”
“The real deal,” I say. “But don’t say ‘grandma.’ It’s ‘Lillian.’ I think it’s a way for her to divorce herself from the idea that I’m a direct descendent of not her mistake but that of a nation that hadn’t yet passed Roe v. Wade.”
Josh puts the picture back. “No wonder you’re so cool.”
I have never considered myself to be remotely cool or remotely connected to Lillian. It makes me feel uncomfortable.
There’s a picture of Mocho and me pulling our wagon piled high with aluminum cans. Josh laughs. “Who’s this?”
“Mocho.”
“Wow,” he exhales. “So he’s one of those from-the-beginning-of-time friends?” Josh sits on the edge of a rust-colored recliner that doesn’t recline anymore. The tips of the arms poke out of the threadbare fabric. He stares at the picture of me and Moch.
It bothers me a little bit because he only knows the today Moch. Josh looked at Moch’s clothes, tattoos, and limp and decided who he is.
Maybe he’s right, thou
gh. “Yeah. That was back in our running-through-sprinklers-together days. Not anymore, I’m afraid.”
“Why?” Josh asks.
“People change,” I say.
My leg is bobbing up and down. I’m hoping we can get out of this place before Lillian passes me some colorful packets saying Condoms: Essential wear.
“Let’s go,” I say, and jump when I see Lillian. She’s leaning against the doorframe in the kitchen.
“Just a second. Could you tell me where you’re going again?” All of a sudden, Lillian’s gone PG. “It’s not like Mike to go to a party.”
“Lillian.” I can feel the color flood my body. “Geez.” I. Could. Die.
I turn to Josh, expecting him to look horrified, but he just smiles. “Sure. My parents have a place in Genoa. Near the golf course.”
That seems to satisfy Lillian. It’s not like Josh is going to say he’s taking me to a crack house.
“Okay,” Lillian says. She leans toward me, like she’s actually going to kiss me on the cheek, then stops. We stand, facing each other, in a weird, uncomfortable, almost-tender moment. “Have fun,” she says.
“I will.”
I follow Josh to his car and slip into the front seat. Lillian hollers, “Mike! If the mm-mm fits . . .”
Oh my God. Lillian thinks joining the XX and XY chromosomes in the same room will result in inevitable reproduction. “It’s a football game,” I say, hoping Josh hasn’t seen that condom ad.
Josh’s car beeps like a garbage truck when it backs up. He pops in a Ryan Adams CD and says, “Ready to win?”
Win?
“Our bet. Did you place it?” He smiles.
“Oh. Yeah. That. I did.”
I’d like to focus on the bet but all I can think is:
Purple grapes, eggplant, cashmere Barney—me.
Chapter 17
WE’RE AT JOSH’S PARENTS’
vacation house in Genoa Lakes. Instead of being the kids relegated to the basement—like at most parties—we drive to a whole new house thirty minutes away, complete with cooking and maid service and everything.
Javier is here with Matt Prince and Marilyn Fuller—kids I’ve gone to school with since I’ve lived in Carson City. Kids I’ve never really known. I never tried, I guess. I’m always amazed that people know how to act in a crowd of peers. The whole mingling, socially adept thing—well, I missed that day. Even Seth is here. It’s nice to see him, and I’m kind of hoping this doesn’t turn into a raging party with half the student body. I’m relieved to hear Josh say, “Cool. Everybody’s here!”
We drink soda in red plastic cups; the divisional playoffs buffet is complete with pizza, jalapeño poppers, and pretty much every other fried food you can possibly fathom. We all sit in the den in front of the home version of an IMAX screen.
Seth starts talking about Babylonia, wondering who it is. He and Javier debate about John Cale and Lou Reed. I don’t figure either would be up for a cool discussion about Johnny Cash’s “A Boy Named Sue.”
I’ve always liked that song. Maybe since I’m A Girl Named Mike.
When it’s been decided the Velvet Underground wouldn’t have been the Velvet Underground had it not been for Cale, the discussion ends. Javier and Josh tap their glasses against each other and say, “Exploding Plastic Inevitable.”
I raise my cup and say, “‘Because you’re mine, I walk the line.’”
The room goes silent and I feel the familiar prickling sensation of heat creeping up my body, hitting my cheeks. I am a furnace.
“What?” asks Javier.
Josh says, “‘I keep a close watch on this heart of mine.’”
Then Josh and I break out into the chorus. I try to do the low, gravelly Johnny Cash voice. Josh practically spews his Coke all over us.
Seth jumps up where we leave off and sings “American Pie.” All ten minutes of it. The room explodes in applause, and I can’t help but laugh and snort and feel a bubbly sense of normalness. “Who’s next?” Seth asks.
My phone is vibrating. I’ve got six new messages for late bets even though I closed bets last night. It’s too hard to juggle stragglers, and they’re the ones who are most likely not to pay. I go to the back of the room to send off my Sanctuary closed message. “You gonna work, Mike?” Seth asks.
Everybody turns to watch me. “No. Bets are off.”
Javier jumps up. “C’mon. We want to see the famous Mike Garcia in action.”
“Not today,” I say. Five messages are from Nim. One with: please please please.
I respond: No.
“Kickoff. Ten minutes,” Josh says. Everybody in this room has placed a bet—everybody but Seth. We gather in front of the TV like it’s our temple.
“You’re not going to write about this, are you?” I ask Seth.
“Umm, and betray my capital investors?”
“Ooh, have we bought your silence?”
“No. I just don’t think a gambling ring is as interesting as, say, the other stuff that goes down at school.”
“Like what?”
“Like Babylonia.”
By halftime, those who bet on the Rams are already spending their winnings. “Game’s not over yet,” Josh says.
I feel my stomach tighten. I’m doing math to see how to cover the $150 I blew, how I’m going to get the cash to Leonard and make payments on two credit cards. I can’t believe I’m wearing a fifty-dollar sweater that makes me look like fruit—a sweater that won’t be paid off until the end of the year.
By the end of the third quarter the Cardinals and Rams are tied. Not only do the Rams have to win, but Cuccaro has to rush another twenty-three yards, minimum, for us to win the bet. And today, of all days, Morrison’s decided to play a passing game.
It feels like someone shoved my intestines through a meat grinder.
Stupid. Stupidstupid.
I go to the bathroom to splash water on my face, practically tripping over the cleaning lady, who’s on her hands and knees scrubbing the tiles. “Excuse me,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
She looks up and her face brightens. “Michal!”
“Mrs. Mendez. Hola,” I say in my Dora Spanish. “What are you doing here?”
She stands up, wiping her chafed and red hands on the apron. “Me and Martin work for the Ellisons. Nice people.”
I want to ask her if she gets paid well; how she manages to get all the way to Genoa to work; if she’s feeling better; what’s going on with Moch. But I just ask, “Did you make the food?”
She nods.
“It was great. Thank you.”
“De nada, Hija.”
I love when she says that.
“When you come back for dinner? With Liliana?”
“This week,” I say. “We’ll bring dessert.”
She laughs and waves me away. “Liliana is good at many things. Cooking, no.”
“You’re telling me. I’ve survived on pot pies, mac ’n’ cheese, and an assortment of Hamburger Helpers through the years. Did you know there are fifty-four varieties? Enough for six weeks of different dinners.”
She tsks. “You come over. With Liliana. I’ll make you some of my fire tamales. Liliana forget her home.” She leans against the wall and rubs her stomach. “Okay. Maybe this American food make my stomach funny. I don’t eat the fire tamales no more neither.”
She looks tired—dark rings under her eyes. “Are you sleeping okay?” I lead Mrs. Mendez to a chair at the end of the hallway and bring her a glass of water.
“With Moch as a son, nobody sleep.”
I nod.
“So. How are you?” I ask.
She tells me about Mr. Mendez, their plans to open a restaurant—the Tamale Palace. Just a little hole in the wall off of Highway 50. They’re pricing rentals now—just a few thousand away from making it work. That’s what she’s always wanted. She’s always talked about it.
“Hey, Michal!” Josh comes into the hallway. “Fourth quarter’s started.” He turns to Mrs. M
endez. “Great food, Laura. Gracias,” he says with a grating flat r.
I cringe. She shouldn’t be Laura. She’s Mrs. Mendez.
“You two know each other?”
I open my mouth and feel Mrs. Mendez pinching my leg. “We used to be neighbors. She’s Moch’s mom,” I say. “Thanks so much for everything, Mrs. Mendez.”
Mrs. Mendez winks. “Te espero en la casa.”
I stare at her. Embarrassed. What the hell is she saying? Why did I take German? I’ve got to be the only Mexican American in German class. Like where will I ever use my German except for with the exchange student, Heinrich, who everybody calls Maneuver? We so lack imagination.
I go back to the den. We’re five minutes into the fourth quarter. We’re pretty much divided between the two teams. The room’s quiet except for Seth, who crunches on Kettle chips. Every time he crunches down on another chip, it’s like he’s stuck his hand down my skin and is ripping out my spine.
Third down. Cardinals have possession of the ball and need to get to the four-yard line to make the first—twelve yards away. Cuccaro needs to rush another twelve. Just. Twelve. Yards.
Ten seconds.
Ten seconds in football can be like ten minutes. The Cardinals have called a time-out. They have the ball and are within field-goal range. If they kick and make the field goal, even though they win, we lose.
Cuccaro has to run it and keep the play running even when time runs out.
Cuccaro needs to run to get the touchdown.
Josh and I need those twelve yards.
Twelve yards.
No team would not punt at this point in time. I mean, punting they’ll tie it up. A touchdown, though . . .
Crap on a cracker.
I really wish I hadn’t eaten those taquitos—deep-fried meat-stuffed tortillas that people try to pass off as Mexican food. Poor Mrs. Mendez. She must cringe when they ask her to make such abominations. We’re not a mole crowd.
We’ve all crept closer to the TV. The whistle blows and the teams take the field. A quick huddle and the Cardinals line up.
No punter.
No punter.
Morrison gets the ball. We can’t see who has it, but then we see Cuccaro is running middle field. Everything in the end zone is a blur of color and the ball is lost under a pile of human bodies.
